


In Our Bedroom After The War

by Wanderlast



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-23
Updated: 2012-05-23
Packaged: 2017-11-05 21:08:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderlast/pseuds/Wanderlast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tumultous host of bells rings loud and clear like a warning, the sunshine streams in through the window, and you know--with the utmost certainty--that this must be your funeral. Cloud Strife and his state of being post-game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Our Bedroom After The War

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from a Stars song. AU from the novellas.

A tumultous host of bells rings loud and clear like a warning, the sunshine streams in through the window, and you know--with the utmost certainty--that this must be your funeral.

After all, the war is over.

Of course, that is selfish of you--to think it for you. It's not for you, and it's never been for you. The accolades will come in time, you _are_ the hero of the story, but not today. Today is for the others. Those nameless, faceless people (plus one) who are now gone and buried so that today, today we can all firmly forget that there was a war at all in the first place.

If you could ever forget, that is.

It's been like this for a few nights now: you lay there, and then you sleep, and then you dream. Simple, easy, routine--even the dreams are all the same: bloody, gory affairs filled with sunlight, flowers, and a single smiling face that asks you if you're okay (maybe?), if you'll go on a date with her (of course), if it's all alone (never, you have ~~me~~ _us_ ), and then in a bit of dramatic irony, if you'll be okay (why are you asking me that, you're the one hurt, please don't leave me--!)

And every morning, on cue, a sound pierces through these visions and through the cheap plastered walls of the place where you have laid for nights, your body seeking the rest that could fix what all the painkilling potions, ethers and elixirs could not. And you are reminded that, indeed, it is your funeral. The past week has been a haze of people, both real and not, walking slowly in to crouch down, rest their face familiarly near yours and to smile and tell you that, "Indeed! the war is over." After all, the battle has been fought and the fight has been won, Cloud, and today, today you can sleep knowing full well that tomorrow's going to be sunny too.

You imagine that they must be out there right now, in fact, soaking in all the fresh air and freedom that they possibly could in a 24-hour-day. Tifa had spied some beautiful little hole-in-the-wall that she could finally call all her own. You imagine she's probably settling the deal for the place right now, a firm handshake confirming the job well done. 

Everyone is returning to their just rewards and their jobs: Tifa the bartender, Barret the _father_ , Cid the, of course, pilot, but what are you?

You are Cloud, the soldier. 

And guess what, soldier?

The war is over.


End file.
